


A Compass in the Nebula, a Compass in the Snow

by Filigranka



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grey and Black Morality, Hux is Not Nice, I'm sure it won't stay gen for long but. let's tag according to now, Mentions of politics, hate: connecting people, mentions of human experimentation, neither is Leia but she at least has some reasons, tbh I find the category of "angst" ah "oppressive" but that's a rant for another time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Their circumstances are written in the stars and it brings Leia only pain.(On meta-level, it's very simple: Nibi throws prompts at me and I write.)





	A Compass in the Nebula, a Compass in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nibi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nibi/gifts).



 

Blood, saliva, hair, skin. The last time Leia felt so ripped off from her own body was on the Death Star, during Vader’s interrogation and... after. The droid puts the samples in the box, carefully. Neatly. Every little vial has a proper label, a line of letters and numbers. A code, because officially she’s dead. She’s a secret, then, someone else’s weapon. A rare and valuable resource.

Perhaps it’s not so different from before. Perhaps this is all that the Skywalkers have been since the beginning – an artificial line, someone else’s dream apprentice, a perfectly honed lightsaber. Passed through generations. Palpatine’s master What’s-His-Name, Palpatine himself, Leia’s parents, Kenobi, Snoke – so many wielders.

Now Hux apparently wants to become one, too. In other circumstances, Leia might find it fascinating, this boldness of his: not giving a damn about the legacies and rules, using all the tools he gets. His desire to be the first, the fastest, the youngest, the best, nothing’s impossible, never tell me the odds, princess, just let me try. But their circumstances are written in the stars, so it only brings her pain.

She longs for a more physical kind, but the medical droids always use all possible anesthetics. This damn mass murderer even ordered vitamins shots for her and sent a specialist unit to balance her diet. Physically, Leia is in the best shape she’s been in decades, _freed from_ her usual diet of military rations and late, unhealthy politician’s dinners.

She still needs to be tied down to the bed during exams, though. The droid opens her binders, apologising as usual for the necessity and asking if she’s experiencing any physical problems. Dizziness, thirst, stiffness—

‘Just nausea,’ she spits, looking Hux straight in the eye.

He visits her sometimes: either when the observation suggests her mental health is worsening from the prolonged loneliness, or earlier, to prevent it.

‘Nausea.’ The droid modulates its voice into an imitation of worry. ‘It’s a common side-effect of blood loss and anesthetic gel. You didn’t experience it earlier, though, so I’d suggest—’

‘It was sarcasm, T-97,’ says Hux. ‘A rhetorical device.’ He approaches her bed, crouches. ‘You shouldn’t do this, Your Highness. You’re making it harder for them to take care of you.’

‘I don’t intend to make anything easy for you.’

‘If you like. It’s your privilege. Not many First Order guests are given a choice in this matter.’

Precious princess. Valuable resource. If not for the fear of damaging his one-of-a-kind specimen, Hux would probably put her into a medical coma. It would be kinder.

Not that Leia expects kindness from him, from any of them. She often thinks about ways to kill herself instantly, or at least too quickly to be saved by the guard droids. She still hasn’t come up with one. Perhaps she’s avoiding some easy answer, perhaps she’s a coward, or perhaps it’s hope – drilled into her brain, drilled into her muscles, carrying her on, not letting her surrender even now. Her old cure is becoming poison, the galaxy’s saviour becoming its curse. The old _pharmakon_ problem.

She wonders, briefly, if Hux even knows the term. Probably not. It doesn’t matter.

‘You’re... less fervent than usual,’ says Hux.

She lets out a long, very long breath. ‘I’m tired.’

The droid turns its head between them, apparently not sure how seriously to treat her words.

‘Yes, you are. Your blood results are fine, though...’ Hux trails off for a moment. ‘T-95, change Her Highness’ antidepressants to something stronger. Raise the dose if there’s no stable improvement in a month’s time.’

The droid beeps, taking note. Leia laughs.

‘Even a sociopath, if he wasn’t a total idiot, would realise that what _troubles_ me is not exactly psychological in nature. More like the state of the galaxy.’ And her own predicament, but she isn’t going to admit she cares about such trifles.

‘It troubles me, too, princess.’ There’s a sudden smoothness in his voice. ‘And I find psychotropic medication a great help. There are a lot of perfectly normal psychological reactions that are far from useful. Grieving people were given anti-depressive bacta neural therapies in both the Old and New Republic. Prisoners are given calming and antiaggression drugs. Pilots take antianxiety drugs to help with the loneliness and vastness of the space they travel.’ He smiles and Leia tenses, strengthening herself. That smile always telegraphs a blow about to come. ‘I’m sure the families of Hosnian Prime’s citizens are being drugged to hell and back now, or so it looks in your propaganda holonews. Grieving, yes, but in an elegant, clean, heroic way.’ 

Leia knows better than to try slapping him, but she still jerks back – it’s useless, but she must – when he sits next to her, takes her wrists, pins her hands flat to the mattress.

‘It’s for your own good. You’re feeling unwell, and humans need human touch for their psychological balance.’ And yes, this is nice, after all these weeks of only cold, metal droids probes, the human warmth radiating through the uniform and her dress. She wants to scrape off every part of her skin that feels it. She tries to kick him, but it’s hard when she’s lying with her knees pushed to the wall by a man half her age. ‘I’ll tell something about the Academy, if you stop. Nothing important, but still. You’ll be able to tell yourself you’re getting some intel out of this. It’ll ease your guilt, if the antidepressants fail.’

It’s a very strange thing for him to be able to understand, to suddenly get under her skin like this, make her cooperate almost against her own will, just out of instinct. He’s not good at people, much worse than Han or Luke, worse than Finn. But sometimes he shows these sudden glimpses of utter cruel brilliance. Usually when it comes to power plays.

‘My mother,’ he starts, when she goes still. He strokes her palm with his thumb, her side with his other hand, and the movement is slow and in different circumstances might be called gentle – but their circumstances are written in the stars, so it’s only methodical. ‘She gave antidepressants to the children who had the most... emotional problems... getting accustomed to the Academy’s drill. Stuffed their dishes with it, secretly. Not mine, of course. Father would have noticed if it were mine, and he would have killed her if he knew. He always refused when the Academy medics suggested it. He thought it was cheating. Disguising a weak animal as a healthy one. He valued honesty, in a sense. Thought the galaxy is, without the usual ornamentations, _hell_. An endless spiral of violence. Survival of the fittest. So if one couldn’t muster the will to survive, even with their back to the wall, they weren’t worthy saving. Worthy of living. That was his version of honesty. The only truth of the world is war. Those kill-or-be-killed situations show us the truth about every person. It’s one philosophy, I suppose.’

 _So you were his weakness_ , Leia realises between one mechanical touch of his hand and another. _Because the Brendol Hux I know from the files wouldn’t value anything in you, except perhaps the things he put there himself. Yes, he pushed your back to the wall and you survived, but that’s all, and yet he made you an officer._

She obviously isn’t going to say so now (she will dream of the moment when she will be able to, when she will win and show this _boy_ how cruel she can be, vivisect him with every word, take samples of every emotion and pain he can give, oh yes, she will dream). But this intel is, much better than what _Armitage_ thinks he’s giving.

‘My mother, as I’m sure you read in the files, was just a kitchen girl. She knew nothing about philosophy. So she saw only the crying, terrified children, unable to adapt and so sentenced to die. She gave them the only strength she could, hoping to buy them a month, a week, a day of a better grades, of more power to stand against other students. Hoping they would at some point get accustomed, their survival instinct would kick back in and they’d be able to go on without any handicaps.’

‘And where did she get the meds?’

‘She didn’t tell me. I shouldn’t even have known about it, but... Let’s say I was a curious child. I saw many things. Put together some of them later. I suppose she stole them from Mara—my father’s wife. She didn’t have any children of her own, she was stuck with my father as her husband, I think that warranted a drug prescription. She was also good at shooting and came from a noble family. The fifth cousin of the Emperor or something. She could have killed him,’ he adds almost wistfully. ‘Welcomed him with a rifle in the bedroom. They wouldn’t have executed her. Perhaps my father preferred to make her happy instead.’

‘Wouldn’t that have been dishonest?’

‘No, it would have been clever. I never said he wasn’t a fat little old hypocrite, Your Highness.’

‘You also never said he was.’

‘How could I disrespect a founding member of the First Order?’ Hux almost smiles, a twitch of his lips. ‘Glad you’re feeling better.’

Leia thinks he must be getting something out of this, too, something other than the samples and soothing visions of murdering her son in the future. She’s old enough to be his mother, after all – the files say his mother was very young when she bore him.

‘I am not.’ Leia makes her words softer, tells herself it’s just like in the Imperial Senate. ‘And I’m sure you have some punchline ready.’ A literal punchline. The _story_ doesn’t seem hurtful enough for this game to be over.

Hux shrugs. ‘Nothing you wouldn’t know already. But here you are: what kind of children had, usually, the most problems getting used to the Academy?’

For a moment Leia doesn’t get it, skims the usual answers – psychological traits, age, physical condition – in her mind. It’s a nice moment, at least in comparison to the next one, when she recalls the answer. And apparently she doesn’t control her face well enough, because Hux smirks triumphantly.

‘See? You know.’

Of course. Children of dissidents’ taken to prison or killed in action, if they didn’t manage to hide them well enough. Most of them died – the Rebellion tried to at least kept tabs on them – but quite a few survived to be used as leverage against their parents. A useful turning method. Some of the children were killed after second Death Star, in retaliation. Some were broken and welcomed the New Republic with blasters in hands. Some others never served the Empire, but still had nothing but spite for the parents who left them. Even those hidden well enough weren’t necessarily keen to see the heroes who also happened to sire them. Leia remembers post-war legal battles, desperate therapies, expensive gifts, heartbroken friends.

‘We won the war,’ she recalls one of those parents saying, tastes the ash, ‘and lost those for whom we had started it’. She said, ‘But at least they’re free, they have a choice. Their future will be better.’ Or something similar. She believed it at the time.

Oh, it’s a nice punchline, indeed. Double blow.

‘But let’s change the perspective.’ Hux’s smile is tight. ‘I’m sure you could tell me some fascinating stories in return.’

She could tell him Draven must have – must have? really, _must have_? – ordered the death of at least one operative, because he was _wavering_ , willing to sell the Alliance to save his son. Leia used to think she would never do that, sacrifice so many for chance to save one, spit on the victims of Alderaan.

Perhaps she still thinks so. She never ordered her soldiers not to shoot at Kylo Ren, after all. She asked Han to bring Ben back, true, but Han – Han was like that operative. He would sacrifice himself either way.

She could tell Hux many things, most of them revolving around the same line: _we did everything for the future and the future belongs to children, our children, we never wanted to leave them, we never forgot them_. But it would make her sound defensive and he would just laugh it off. _I don’t care about wishes, give me the results. Don’t tell me it is – it was – impossible._

She could tell him his war will end just the same, even if he wins, in disappointment, bitterness and slush instead of pretty white snow, but she can’t even think that him winning is possible. Can’t risk jinxing it. She thought _I’m not dying today_ and survived the cosmic vacuum. Who knows what else this terrific Force of hers can do?

Her eyes dart to the line of vials. She could tell him many things, but their circumstances are written in the stars, and he’s an enemy, so she just says, ‘Your mother was a kind-hearted woman.’

‘It’s rather easy when one’s a kitchen worker, princess.’

It’s more painful when Leia recalls how often she used this logic in the politics, how many times she threw it at Han – _yes, yes, go away and leave me with all hard choices that actually matter, that actually change things in a way smuggling a few people in or out could never do_ – so she does her best not to.

But it’s not like Hux’s mother changed anything, ultimately, not like she saved anyone. Leia was right, as always. It’s just not a nice feeling.

‘Don’t you think antidepressants are useless as long as you’re around? A waste of resources.’ She blinks. ‘Keeping me alive is a waste of resources.’

‘It’s not. I’m checking hypotheses.’

One by one. Methodically. _Never tell me the odds_ just in a scientific jargon, indeed. Yet she tries, feeling a little like C3-PO:

‘You’re chasing a mirage. The Force isn’t something quantifiable, something to grab and hold. Scientifically explainable. It’s the breath of the universe, the connection between all living things. Life itself. The Will of the Universe. It’s–‘

‘I’m not going to discuss your sacred religious beliefs with you. It would be _useless_.’ Hux shakes his head. ‘But while I’m not an expert in the culture studies–’ not an expert, she thinks viciously, what an understatement, as far as she knows they barely have any literature on these ships of theirs, ‘–think the beings of old believed the stars to be gods. Higher powers ruling over their fates, over their lives and death. Pilots still have a lot of superstitions about the stars, their guiding lights. And yet.’

Her mother used to say that stars are dead beings’ souls. An old Alderaanian saying, evolving from literal faith, through legend, into symbol. Leia’s throat clenches. ‘It was _your defeat_.’

‘A setback for the Order, yes. But _I_ proved the hypothesis. Stars aren’t untouchable. They can be used, harvested, killed. We can lord over their lifespan. Redraw the eternal cosmic maps. Change the birth horoscopes.’ He hesitates. ‘Isn’t it what all revolutions are about?’

Leia loses her breath for a second. This is shockingly accurate for someone without access to a liberal arts library. Perhaps some realisations aren’t discovered in libraries, but born out of hunger, bitten nails, the visceral need to get out, out, out, out of this world, this situation, this body. Perhaps she hadn’t become a true rebel until Alderaan turned to dust and she felt it all, deep within.

Changes and fights are about hope, but hope has many faces and one of them is revenge. The same, she supposes, can be said about checking hypotheses.

She grits her teeth and shrugs his hand off. Hux lets her. Strokes her knuckles before rising up. The droid follows him to the door, sputtering some polite goodbyes, its voice artificially cheerful. He turns at the door, once more. He aims for kindness, probably, his face and voice softening with every word.

‘You know, it will get easier when you accept reality. It always does. One can work on making things nicer for oneself, then. Better. What’s gone is gone, but you’re alive. You can carry on.’

She always does, doesn’t she? And oh, she will make things better or die trying, absolutely. Just not in the way this post-Imperial bastard rat means.

It must show on her face, because Hux sighs overdramatically – typical, typical, total lack of class – and sends her another one of his 'I'm-looking-forward-to hurting-you' smiles. So vulgar.

‘Of course, you can also carry on making things harder for yourself and my droids. Be a spoiled queen from fairytales, if you prefer. Throw fits, scream at your servants. It’s all you have left.’ She expects him to end with “princess” and rolls her eyes mentally, lowers her defences; a mistake. ‘You poor, tired Star of the Rebellion.’

**Author's Note:**

> For Nibiś, as always, for her prompts, as always. I wonder if I shouldn't make it a general collection for all my future Leia/Hux stories which will surely come, buuuut I also feel there's a big chance I'll change Nibiś' prompts into something with more coherent plot, because I want to write this scenario, soooo - so let me wait with any decisions (it's not like anyone except my dearest friends will read it; it's always a nice, freeing feeling). So, this one if for Latin prompts at tumblr - come at throw some at me - for the old good _dum spiro, spero._
> 
> All the thanks to Lucymonster, who helped me with the English grammar! <3
> 
> The title based on Xavier Farré's poem. He's a Catalan poet and Polish&Slovenian-Spanish/Catalan translator, but even if his poems were translated to English, I cannot find them.


End file.
